


Bodies of Water and Hope

by unsungyellowraincoat



Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Existential Crisis, Filmmaking, Friendship, Loneliness, M/M, Paranormal, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-02-18 03:49:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21871270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsungyellowraincoat/pseuds/unsungyellowraincoat
Summary: Even is an up-and-coming documentary filmmaker struggling under the weight of his acclaimed directorial debut. A film project takes him to scenes of alleged paranormal activity in Trondheim where a young astrophysicist helps him rediscover life on Earth.
Relationships: Even Bech Næsheim/Isak Valtersen
Comments: 88
Kudos: 163





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello hello hello, is there anybody in there, because i am back on my bullshit!  
> what to say about this fic, i don't even know. i was gone for a long time, and now i'm back it seems, writing about aliens and what have you.  
> this is related to all my other fic in themes and style, so if you didn't like them, you're not gonna have a good time here.  
> but i hope you like it!  
> title will make sense in time. chapters will be posted at random times. i'm not sure about the rating yet, but the romance is going to be slooow.

Sometimes, it’s the thoughts.

Sometimes, it’s the illumination from the streetlight streaming through the broken blinds that keeps him awake. 

Should call the landlord about that. One of these days. Eventually.

He sits up, grabs a pair of boxers off the floor. A quick sniff – they will have to do. The body next to him stirs but doesn’t wake up, the night casting a long shadow like a moving tattoo on the naked back. He watches the shadow for a while, then the dreaming eyelids, fluttering things. Mads, huh. Decent guy. Decent sex. Decent everything. Pleasantly forgettable. Like dreamless sleep.

He slides out of bed, parts the blinds with his hand and squints as his eyes adjust to the light. The sky is a gradient of darkness. On the opposite street someone is walking their dog, standing with their hands in their pockets as the dog takes a glorious dump under the glowing streetlight.

“The truth is out there.”

Even turns away from the window. Mads is awake, hunched on the edge of the bed, looking at him with amused eyes.

Even shrugs, returning the smirk with a smirk. “So they say.”

Mads’s gaze moves to study the newspaper clippings on the nightstand, nudging them with his finger. “Into aliens and shit?”

“Work-related,” Even says in a clipped tone.

Mads nods then. “Thought I recognized your name on the door. Bech Næsheim. Seen your stuff.”

Even runs a hand through his hair, quickly averts his gaze. “I’m flattered,” he says with a self-deprecating laugh. The awkward feeling never goes away. Like coming out, it never stops. They should teach this in film school – or maybe they already do. Hard to know with a degree in Anthropology.

“That was you, wasn’t it? _The Bipolar Big Bang_. Great stuff, man. Raw stuff.” Mads swipes his forehead, shaking his head in awe. “The part where you ran naked in the sea? _We all came from somewhere_ , man.”

Even snorts, pins Mads down on the bed. “You here to fuck or to review my resume?” he asks, and his reflection in the window bends to kiss Mads on the mouth.

The kiss tastes of red wine and unbrushed teeth. Mads’s mouth is hungry and strange.

Wherever the truth may be, this cannot be it.

Outside, a dog barks until morning, its message unclear.

* * *

“People who are more open to new ideas are more likely to believe in paranormal—Even, would you please stop doing that thing with your tongue. It’s distracting,” Sonja snaps, rolling her eyes, then lets out a sigh, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, can we take this one more time, from the beginning?”

“Let’s take a breather,” Even says, glancing at the clock on the wall in Sonja’s office. “Ten minutes?”

Sonja takes a sip of water, tapping her collarbone. “Five,” she says as she puts her glass down. Her gaze is sharp, but there are dark circles under her eyes. He knows those dark circles well, having once been the cause of them.

“Everything alright?” he asks.

Sonja gives an apologetic smile. “Fine. Just a bit tired is all,” she says, her mouth twitching as Even fixes her with a look that says, _I know you a little bit better than that_.

“Fine then,” she says more sharply now, then draws in a long breath like a diver about to jump. “What can I say? Markus is in Shanghai again, for who knows how long this time; the kids both had the stomach flu, Emil’s recital is coming up, and Sara’s game, and my International Congress of Psychology, and the dog, oh the _dog_ —I don’t think my mother-in-law’s rug can be salvaged, and believe me I really did try—, and here I am looking like absolute shit while you point your cameras at me—”

Even stops her there. “You know you can drop them at my place any time.”

Sonja looks scandalized. “Into your sex dungeon? I don’t think so.”

“You once had a different tone,” Even says, waggling his brows.

“Five minutes are up,” Sonja says flatly, and Even knows he’s gone too far. She readjusts the framed family photo on the desk and straightens her posture, then looks into the camera and says, “I’m dropping the twins at six on Friday. Now roll the camera.”

* * *

The rain patters on the window.

Even sits cross-legged on the floor, studying the newspaper clippings and printouts before him. There are dozens of them, the oldest ones dating back two years, spread on the floor like continents on a map from another world.

> **Trondheim power outage**  
>  A massive power outage has left over 15,000 households without power in Trondheim this evening. Trondheim Energy assures it is working to locate the source of the issue but is unable to give an estimated time of restoration […]
> 
> **Trondheim farmers claim paranormal activity**  
>  Four landowners in Trondheim have reported of crop circles that some now believe may be related to paranormal activity. “I’ve never seen anything like it. At twilight, the sky was completely purple, I’ve never seen anything like it even though I’ve lived here all my life. I went outside, and I thought I saw something move in the horizon, something shiny, so I made my toward it, and that’s when I saw the shapes,” said Lars Nilsen (63). Recently widowed, Nilsen lives alone, farming 10 acres of crops […]
> 
> **Mobile phone errors plague Trondheim**  
>  Apple iPhone users are experiencing mobile phone issues in Trondheim. Reports of network connection problems and unresponsive phone screens are flooding in mere days after four Trondheim landowners reported of mysterious crop circles, fueling wild speculation on paranormal causes […]
> 
> **Trondheim Energy CEO steps down**  
>  Per-Erik Kristiansen steps down as Trondheim Energy CEO following criticism of the company’s handling of a recent chain of power outages sweeping through Trondheim […]
> 
> **Music for the unknown**  
>  Following an influx of alleged sightings of paranormal activity, Trondheim is emerging as a hub for fans of the occult in Norway, attracting curious visitors from around the country, and even from Europe. Kerstin Hølaas (47) has come all the way from Kristiansand to join Space Opera, a Trondheim-based group aiming to communicate with the extraterrestrial through the sound of music […]

The phone rings on the windowsill. Even gets up, stepping onto a piece of newspaper that sticks to his heel like a flattened slug.

“Shit,” he mutters as he hits the speaker button.

“What a great way to greet your oldest and dearest friend,” Mikael’s voice replies dryly.

“Shit, hold on,” Even says, stomping his foot to get rid of the piece of paper. “Okay, you can talk now.”

“Did I call at a bad time?”

“No, no, I was just reviewing some work. You? Calling for a reason?”

“I just called to say I love you,” Mikael sings, “I just called to say how much I caaaaare.”

“Yeah, you too,” Even laughs, studying his reflection in the window. He’s lost weight. It’s been a while since his last homecooked meal.

“How’s your documentary coming along? Should I start freaking out over what to wear to the premier?”

“Started with Sonja’s bits this week,” Even says as he kneels down on the floor again, proceeding to rearrange the newspaper clippings into a circle around him. “Meeting some interviewees next week.”

“Text me if you meet an alien. Or better, call me. I’ve already set the X-Files Theme as your ringtone.”

Even laughs, snapping his fingers as though Mikael were in the room. “Come on man, it’s not the aliens I’m interested in. It’s the people who believe in them.”

“Right.”

“You don’t have to be so skeptical.”

“I believe in you,” Mikael says, his tone more serious now. “I know you’re gonna kill it. Fuck, after _The Bipolar Big Bang_ , the whole world’s expecting it.”

* * *

Tonight, it’s the thoughts.

Like ants they come, many legged things: harmless when scattered, but once with their kin, able to form a swarming black hole that feeds on everything it can find.

 _The Bipolar Big Bang_ was his directorial debut.

It was a hit, for a documentary film. More than 50,000 people saw it, some of them in high places. His name was on the news. Before, he was a nobody. Just a guy with a dream and a camera, without much left to lose: his sanity, his fiancée, the last few fucks he gave, all long gone, swept away by the winds of the world.

Not making the movie was never an option: it _had_ to be made for it throbbed in him like a gushing wound, bleeding all over him. The urge that drove him was like vomit, like a disease that had to be eradicated before his body could be a vessel for anything else. He didn’t think about the distributors, or the budget, or the critics. He didn’t think about whether it was a film that deserved to be made or if there would be life after it. He was too far gone into the madness and the violence of creation for his mind to register anything beyond the frenzy pouring out of him.

This time, it’s different. Now, there are illusions to maintain. The name he’s made for himself as a filmmaker to live up to. Five years of radio silence to make up for. Fans, friends, funders, all these groups of people he can’t let down.

Self-doubt sprouts out of him like pigweed.

Is it fear, or is it ungratefulness?

More than 50,000 people saw his film. Is it not enough? Is it not enough to have done it once? When did he wake up wanting to do it again?

Therein lies the danger of dreaming, he thinks.

The dreams that are never fulfilled shine the brightest. The rest? They become reality, mundane mornings, favorite songs that have since lost their edge, leaving you yearning for more, for something better yet to come. You wake up, in your hands a discolored photograph of what you once imagined was the face of the real thing. A dream fulfilled becomes a circumstance, so you dream on, always looking for the next fix, the next project to keep you distracted from the misery that is in you.

He’s a filmmaker now, his own childhood hero come to life. But it didn’t fill the void, merely covered it with leaves. A child’s trick.

He slides out of bed, opens the window to let the last shreds of winter in. The silence has cold hands.

* * *

“No McDonald’s,” Sonja says firmly, pulling Emil’s hat over his ears. “And no weird movies, just so we’re clear. They’re six years old and I can’t have my house full of drawings of Tim Curry in a corset.”

“It’s a _musical_ , Sonja. Kids love musicals,” Even defends himself, placing his hands on the kids’ shoulders and drawing them closer. “Right, kids?”

“I want to watch the movie about the handsome lady singing!” Sara says in a bright voice, her body wobbling with anticipation.

Even smiles triumphantly. “See?”

Sonja gives him a death glare, then pulls out a tissue to wipe the snot dripping from Sara’s nose. “Play nicely and go to bed when Uncle Even tells you to. No fights. I’ll see you on Sunday,” she says before getting into her car.

They wave as she drives off, watching her car disappear into the slush of the city. Then, Even pats the kids on the head and says, “Now, who’s ready for Burger King?”

* * *

“I don’t think I want to become an adult,” Sara says pensively after Even has tugged her and Emil to his bed.

“Why is that?” Even asks gently.

“ _All_ adults do is fight and send emails,” she says, spreading her arms wide for emphasis and almost smacking Emil in the eye.

Even chuckles. “Is that what you think we do?”

Sara bites her lip, gripping the edge of her duvet. “Mom and Dad always fight, and the next day, Dad goes away for a long time. Why is that?”

“Your Dad is very busy because he wants you to always be happy,” Even replies softly, stroking her hair.

“But why?”

Unsure how to respond to that, Even pauses for a moment before saying, “Sometimes adults have other adults keeping them busy even when what they really want is to go home.”

The answer seems to satisfy Sara. She nods quietly, her grip on the duvet loosening. Next to her, Emil is giggling to himself.

“When I squeeze my eyes shut, I can see twinkling,” he says excitedly.

Even hums. “That’s a very special talent”, he praises.

“Can you do it?” Emil asks, eyes brimming with curiosity.

“Not at all.”

“I can do it, too!” Sara exclaims, her eyes tightly shut.

“Children came from the stars,” Even whispers dramatically, moving his hands in the air.

“What about adults?” Emil whispers back.

Even gives him a soft smile. “I’ve forgotten. Now, close your eyes.”

* * *

Even waits for the twins to drift off before quietly slipping out of the room. He pours himself a glass of water to flush down his meds with, then plops himself on the sofa and reaches with his leg to click on the floor lamp.

Mads from the other day has texted him. It’s short and to the point, just like Even prefers it.

**MADS:** _dtf?_

**EVEN:** _busy_

 _next week?_ Eve types a follow-up message, but deciding it would sound too clingy, quickly erases it and instead opens his laptop to catch up on his emails. There’s a mountain of them to power through, all staring at him expectantly, and he stares back at loss, eventually clicking open the one that says urgent in the subject line.

> **[urgent] Prof. Borger Sick Leave**  
>  Isak Valtersen [isak.valtersen@ntnu.no](mailto:isak.valtersen@ntnu.no)
> 
> Dear Even Bech Næsheim,
> 
> I apologize for the late hour. I am contacting you on behalf of Professor Borger to inform you that due to urgent personal reasons, he is currently unable to provide consultation on your upcoming documentary. I have been assigned to take over his role for the time being. If you would rather have someone else or reschedule the first meeting, please let me know at your earliest convenience. Please find a list of my publications and areas of interest attached below.
> 
> Best regards,  
>   
> Isak Valtersen  
> PhD Candidate  
> Department of Physics  
> Norwegian University of Science and Technology
> 
> **re:** **[urgent] Prof. Borger Sick Leave**
> 
> Dear Isak Valtersen,
> 
> Very sorry to hear about Professor Borger, please send him my regards. Here is a link to a Google Drive where you can access files related to the documentary: [link]
> 
> I look forward to working with you.
> 
> Sincerely,
> 
> Even Bech Næsheim

Even presses send, then lets out a long breath, scratching the back of his head. Professor’s out of the picture, then. He’s not going to let this become a problem. This Valtersen guy seems knowledgeable enough, judging from the number of his accolades. Of course, to Even’s layman ear’s simply having _Department of Physics_ in your email signature is enough to warrant comparisons to Einstein, so he copies the name and pastes it into Google, out of pure curiosity.

A surprised _whoa_ escapes his mouth. Not what he was expecting at all. Isak Valtersen’s hardly old enough to be Einstein, or even Einstein’s grandson: he can’t be much older than thirty. The picture they have up of him on the webpage is on the awkward side, but it’s not bad per se, maybe even charming. He’s cute.

And quick at returning emails, it seems.

> **re: re:** **[urgent] Prof. Borger Sick Leave  
> ** Isak Valtersen [isak.valtersen@ntnu.no](mailto:isak.valtersen@ntnu.no)
> 
> Dear Even Bech Næsheim,
> 
> Thank you for the related files and the I would assume unrelated picture of an adult human male’s torso.
> 
> Best regards,  
>   
> Isak Valtersen  
> PhD Candidate  
> Department of Physics  
> Norwegian University of Science and Technology

Even lifts an eyebrow, scrolling down his Google Drive files until he catches it: a picture of a naked torso. _His_ torso, taken from an awkward angle for some guy on Grindr who ghosted him a few days later. Even buries his face in his hands, his cheeks burning with embarrassment.

> **re: re: re:** **[urgent] Prof. Borger Sick Leave**
> 
> Dear Isak Valtersen,
> 
> I’m very sorry, you weren’t supposed to see that. I have deleted the picture. My apologies.
> 
> Sincerely,
> 
> Even Bech Næsheim  
>   
> 
> 
> **re: re: re: re:** **[urgent] Prof. Borger Sick Leave  
> ** Isak Valtersen [isak.valtersen@ntnu.no](mailto:isak.valtersen@ntnu.no)
> 
> Dear Even Bech Næsheim,
> 
> No problem. I hope the picture served its purpose.
> 
> Looking forward to meeting you.
> 
> Best regards,  
>   
> Isak Valtersen  
> PhD Candidate  
> Department of Physics  
> Norwegian University of Science and Technology

Even snorts, his face still feeling a bit hot. He reads the email again, still unable to tell for sure whether the guy is joking or not but hoping for his own sake it’s the former, then looks up from his laptop.

Emil is standing in the doorway, shuffling his feet.

“Did I wake you up?”

“I can’t sleep,” Emil says in a small voice.

Even smiles. “Come here.” He pats the sofa. “I’ll tell you a story,” he says as Emil runs across the room and curls up in his lap.

“What kind of a story?” Emil asks curiously.

“Well, this one’s a very old story, but not many have heard of it. Once upon a time, there was a boy who lived in the stars.”

“What was his name?”

Even opens his mouth, looking for a name. Only one springs to mind.

“Let’s call him Isak.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah all these words and they didn't even meet yet i'm sorry!  
> but thank you for reading & happy holidays!  
> oh and i'm on [tumblr](https://isaksbestpillow.tumblr.com/)!  
> sorry about weird englishes, still writing in a foreign language here.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, and sorry!! i got a bit busy with life. thank you for not kicking me out of this fandom, i love you all and your comments and responses have been lovely. anyway, this fic is very dear to me, and i'm happy to be able to continue writing it. hope you enjoy this chapter, see you soon i hope!

Lars Nilsen’s property lies in a secluded valley some forty minutes from the airport, his only neighbors the gray birds circling over the fields like fragments of an unfinished song.

The ground is slippery, causing Even to nearly trip over his feet as he waves the taxi driver goodbye, then staggers across the icy driveway towards the main house, praying in his mind that he can make it inside with his camera equipment intact.

The door opens before he has made it to the stairs, revealing a bulky, balding man in his 60s.

“Careful, son,” Lars Nilsen says, slowly descending the stairs while gripping the handrail, then as slowly bending over to scatter gravel from the bucket at the bottom of the stairs.

“Nice to meet you,” Even says, halting his steps.

Lars nods approvingly. “Come on in.”

Even follows him inside, shuts the door behind him. Alerted by the sound, the birds on the wire fly off like a crumbling musical scale, scattering outside the window, their shrieks piercing the daylight.

* * *

The coffee maker splutters loudly in the kitchen. Even places his camera onto the table next to a bag of store brand cinnamon rolls that have expired two days ago before taking a seat next to the window.

“Still snow in Oslo?” Lars asks from where he is standing by the dish washer, takes a dirty mug from the rack and starts washing it under the tap.

“Nearly all gone, save for a patch here and there,” Even says, looking out the window into the glistening yard that reminds him of the outdoors ice-skating rink his father would take him every winter in the past. “Good riddance, I say, though the kids did love their snow horse.”

“You got kids?”

Even turns to look at Lars, gives him a friendly smile. “God kids. They’re six.”

Lars looks pleased. “That’s a wonderful age. I’ve got a granddaughter in Oslo, Tilda. She’s nine,” he says with pride in his voice as he takes out his phone to show Even his lock screen, a picture of a wide-eyed girl in a tutu stretching her leg on the ballet barre.

“Do you visit Oslo often?” Even asks.

Lars puts the phone away. Something flickers in his eyes, a shadow of a shadow, a hint of regret. “They’re busy people. My son is an architect. He designed that new shopping center, some part of it. Haven’t seen it yet since my wife…” Lars doesn’t finish the sentence, instead stares at the window with glazed eyes before asking, “You married?”

“Didn’t make it that far,” Even says humorously, pouring coffee into the porcelain cup Lars has placed under his nose.

Lars lets out a surprised laugh. “You’re still young. Someone better will come along.”

Even gives a courteous smile. It’s hardly Lars’s fault that there has been no one since Sonja, and it’s certainly not Sonja’s fault that for her someone better did come along. Someone more suited who could want the same things.

Lars takes a seat on the opposite side of the table, studies the camera in silence. “Thought there’d be more of you,” he says eventually.

“I don’t have a crew. I like prefer a more intimate approach,” Even explains, then adds with a waggle of his brows, “I also just don’t have the money to hire one.”

Lars doesn’t remove his eyes from the camera, examining it like a piece of rock from outer space. “Imagined you people would have someone to spread out the red carpet for you.”

Even laughs, amused by Lars’s bluntness. “Sorry to disappoint you. Unfortunately, I don’t have anyone to do the dirty work.”

Lars takes a noisy sip of his coffee. _World’s greatest husband_ , it says on the mug in bold faded letters. Even studies the roses painted on his porcelain cup, idly runs his thumb along the golden rim.

“No use for a dish washer these days,” Lars says abruptly.

In the same moment a small bird flies into the window, making a thud. Even jolts, winces as he bumps his elbow on the edge of the table. Coffee splashes over the golden rim, spilling onto the table like an inkblot test.

Even is not sure what he sees in it.

* * *

“Mind your step,” Lars says, throwing sand from his bucket as they totter down the yard towards the field edge where a few withered straws peek through the wet snow.

Even strides over the ditch to the field with his camera, his boots sinking into the snow squelching underfoot. The wind nips at his ears, a long wail from the sea.

“Is this where you saw the shapes?” he asks, the question still echoing in the wilderness as he moves closer to the center of the field.

The weight of the snow makes walking difficult, and it takes a moment for Lars to catch up to him. Lars is panting as he replies, “Over there.”

Even studies the landscape through his camera lens, zooming in on the hare he’s spotted by the cowshed while Lars catches his breath.

“Do you have cows?” he asks.

“Had to sell them when my wife, Marte—when she got cancer.” Lars pauses to light a cigarette, gnarled fingers trembling in the cold. ”One of the hardest decisions I’ve ever had to make.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Even says, declining the pack of cigarettes.

Lars lets out a low laugh that resembles a growl, scratches his brow. “The doc says I should sell the farm. A young fella, says my back can’t handle the work.” Lars scans the horizon, blowing smoke between his teeth. “The doc should’ve seen me that day, tell you what. I ran like a deer.”

“Can you tell me about that day?” Even asks. “Where were you, what happened?”

“I was inside, watching the news, just a regular night until I heard her voice. I went to the window and saw the sky was on fire.”

“That’s when you ran outside?”

“I thought I heard her voice. Felt her presence. She was asking me to come outside.”

“You ran outside towards the sound of her voice,” Even repeats gently.

“That’s when I discovered the shapes,” Lars says, looking straight into the camera now. “Do you think she was here? Do you think Marte—Do you think she was here?”

Even squats down, dips his fingers in the snow. “I don’t know, Lars,” he says.

The tips of his fingers have started turning reddish and numb: the feeling is real.

* * *

“A belief in the paranormal can work as a protective shield against the harsh realities of the world. We are wired in a way that when something unexpected happens, be it a death or job loss, the brain begins to look for meaning in the chaos to gain control—Sorry, can we take this again?”

Even presses pause, chuckling at the way Sonja’s face freezes on the screen as though she were blind drunk before closing the laptop, pushing it to the other side of the hotel bed.

It’s too early for bed but too late for work, that liminal space in time that Even still sometimes struggles how to inhabit: he knows how to sleep, how to work; it’s the simple act of being that at times becomes a battle.

Even gets up to draw the curtains. Outside, Trondheim twinkles, unfamiliar lights in unfamiliar windows. The hotel room is quiet, only the low steady hum of traffic coming from the street below.

Sprawling himself on the bed, Even logs into his dating app profile.

First time in Trondheim, might as well take a look, he thinks.

He swipes past a couple of headless profiles absentmindedly until his thumb halts at a familiar face: Isak Valtersen, PhD Candidate, Department of Physics, Norwegian University of Science and Technology. Even barks out a laugh of surprise. It’s a small world, a fucking pebble.

Isak is cute in his curly hair, has a twinkle in his eye like someone who laughs a lot, a kissable face. The thought catches Even unguarded and he rushes to swipe left on the profile, dropping the phone like a piece of hot charcoal.

He’s done many stupid and reckless things in the past, came out alive but faced the consequences. He knows better than to jeopardize his film by attempting to hook up with one of the experts. He may be lonely, but not to that extent.

Even rolls onto his side, stares at the empty space next to him.

There’s no one there.

* * *

Isak Valtersen asks to meet in the university canteen. His handshake is firm, and he doesn’t break eye contact until they’ve both sat down to eat their sandwiches.

“Thanks for meeting me here,” Isak says, tugging a napkin under his chin in an unfussy manner that makes it nearly impossible for Even not to break into a smile. “Professor Borger doesn’t tolerate eating in the office.”

“How is he?” Even inquires carefully.

“Stroke. It’s a slow recovery.” Isak holds Even’s gaze, then bites into his sandwich.

“Please send him my regards.”

The conversation dries up, but there is no awkward edge to the silence: it flows like water in a stream, blending into the background noise of people coming in and out of the canteen. Even observes the people for a while, recalls a different lifetime of lectures, essays, pasta with ketchup, _We the Tikopia_ sliding off the nightstand as Sonja rode him.

“Been a long time since I last had lunch at a university canteen,” he says finally and smiles faintly — at the memory, at Isak watching him, he isn’t sure.

“Film school?”

“Anthropology.”

“Same subject, different approach.” Isak flashes a grin, the corners of his eyes crinkle.

Even laughs, tilts his head. “Yeah, well. Maybe on some level. What is film if not a study on the human experience.”

“Was it the Terminator who said that?” Isak asks in a teasing tone, Even’s exaggerated eye roll only encouraging his grin.

“You know, before I got into cosmology, I saw myself working in something more human-oriented,” Isak confesses, his tone less jestful now.

“What got you into cosmology?”

“It’s a good distraction,” Isak says, then, as though reading the confusion on Even’s face, “from everything that’s not cosmology.”

“That’s a pretty broad category.” A smile tugs at Even’s lips. When Isak speaks, it’s easy to forget Even has known him in person for less than twenty minutes.

“Exactly,” Isak replies. Something flickers in his eyes like a fish in murky water, but it’s gone before Even can name it.

“Have you been to Trondheim before?” Isak suddenly changes the topic, as though having at last remembered a question he’s been meaning to ask.

“First time.”

“It’s better in the summer, I promise.”

Even chuckles. “Show me a place in Norway that isn’t.”

“I will once I find it,” Isak says, mouth curving into a mischievous smile, “I’ll upload a picture onto my Google Drive and email it to you.”

Even snorts, hopes it’s enough to hide the flush of embarrassment about to rise to his cheeks. “That won’t be necessary,” he says.

“Very few things that are necessary, you will find,” Isak says mysteriously, tugging the napkin from his neck. “Say, will you be here in the summer?”

“About once a month for however long there is a story to tell,” Even says, watching in amusement as Isak uses the tip of his finger to pick up a few breadcrumbs from the table. “Maybe I will have learned to navigate the city by then.”

“Been to any places yet?”

“Just a farm and my hotel room.”

“That can be easily changed,” Isak says, drumming his fingers on the table. “I’ll show you Professor Borger’s office.”

Even laughs. “That’s a start.”

* * *

Twilight has set the sky ablaze when Even emerges from the baggage claim at Gardemoen airport. Travel-weary, he sits down on a bench by the platform to watch the trains.

A missed call from Mikael. Even calls back, opens his email while the call connects, eyes widening at the first subject line he sees.

> **To get you started**  
>  Isak Valtersen [isak.valtersen@ntnu.no](mailto:isak.valtersen@ntnu.no)
> 
> Dear Even,
> 
> Please find attached an Excel file of places to see in Trondheim. Maybe it will be of some use to you.
> 
> Best regards,  
>   
> Isak Valtersen  
> PhD Candidate  
> Department of Physics  
> Norwegian University of Science and Technology

Even finds himself chuckling at the phone screen.

“What’s so funny, man?” Mikael’s voice asks.

Even lifts his gaze, watches people with heavy luggage and golden tans board the train for Oslo.

“I don’t know,” he says. “You tell me.”

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! times are turbulent, but one thing remains certain: my updating schedule is absolutely terrible. i hope you are all okay during these times. thank you so much for all the comments, you are the loveliest readers! this chapter is a little bit shorter than the previous ones as it's mostly a bridge before we can go back to trondheim, sorry about that.

“Should we get married?”

Even furrows his brows. “What? To each other?” he says and looks at Mikael who in turn raises his gaze from the Easter sales catalogue.

Mikael passes Even the joint they’ve been smoking, flashing an innocent smile as Even snatches it. “Why not?”

Even makes a face of repulsion. “Absolutely not.”

“Come on, man,” Mikael whines, wriggling his body like a dying fish on the floor for a moment before rolling onto his back, eyes pleading at Even. “Help a friend out.”

Even coughs into his fist as laughter erupts from him. “What have you done this time?”

“ _Thanks_ for your confidence,” Mikael sneers, folding his arms over his chest. “I’ve been home for 24 hours, and in that time my parents have already managed to beg me to come back from Germany to settle down _three times_. That’s 0.125 times per hour.”

“I wouldn’t want to jeopardize our friendship,” Even says, nudging Mikael on the shoulder with his foot. “You know what they say about bros chilling five feet apart because they’re married.”

“A marriage of convenience. What’s there to lose?”

“ _You_ as my husband? How is that not an inconvenience?”

“I’ve been giving this a serious thought, and you came to my mind as the perfect candidate.”

“Because I’m the hottest person you know?”

Mikael sits up, seizing the joint from Even’s lips. “Because you’ve given up on your actual love life,” he says dryly before taking one final drag.

“I’ve never said that!” Even exclaims, aiming a kick at Mikael’s knee.

“No, but your post-Sonja dating history begs to differ,” Mikael says and stubs out the joint, then throws his arms around his legs, curling into himself.

Unable to come up with a witty response, Even darts his eyes to the abs of the man in the magazine.

“I’ve been seeing someone lately,” Mikael says abruptly, his lips spreading into a melancholic smile before Even can open his mouth to congratulate him. “But I don’t think it’s gonna work out.”

“Why not?”

“It just won’t,” Mikael replies in that firm tone of his that tells Even the conversation is over.

The room becomes quiet. Even breathes out, props his chin with his palm and observes the lines on Mikael’s face. There are more of them with the naked eye, the phone screen can only reveal so much. Even smiles to himself. Time is a funny thing, he thinks, only ever visible in the shape of the change it brings.

Mikael has closed his eyes, his head sagging toward his chest as though about to drift off. A moment passes until Even pulls himself onto his legs with an amused snort, grabs a blanket to tenderly drape over Mikael’s shoulder.

The sun hangs low in the western sky, the fading rays illuminating the dirty spots in the window. In the street below someone walks their dog, just like any other day.

“Hey,” Even begins softly, “what if I told you I was in love with you in middle school?”

There’s a hazy silence until Mikael mumbles, “I don’t think it would make much of a difference now.”

When Even finally tears his eyes away from the horizon, Mikael is fast asleep, a transient being in a momentary state.

* * *

The dining table is covered in old newspapers and purple fingerprints.

“Watch out for the rug, this is your last warning,” Sonja scolds from behind her laptop, reaching out to stop Emil from knocking over his glass of water before returning to typing.

“What are you painting?” Even asks.

Absorbed in painting his egg, it takes a while for Emil to respond, his tongue peeking out in concentration. “I’m painting the stars. Look! I painted Isak.”

“That’s amazing!” Even says, ruffling Emil’s hair. “Looks just like him.”

Emil beams, adding more blue color onto the stick figure he has painted before spreading his blue palms, looking happy with himself.

Even smiles, briefly wonders what Isak would say if he saw his namesake. Does he have siblings? What did he paint as a child?

For reasons unknown to him, Even’s mind wanders to Isak until he notices Sara studying him intently from the other side of the table, her head propped on her hands.

“What are you painting?” she asks, leaning closer to gain a better look at the egg in Even’s hand.

“Great thing you asked, Sara, because I’m painting the dragon my great grandfather fought,” Even says, holding out the egg in front of Sara’s nose.

Sara’s eyes widen. “Are dragons real?”

“Well,” Even says, swallowing as he feels Sonja kick him under the table – _you know very well that their father doesn’t like it when you plant your ideas in them_. “It depends on who you ask.”

“Can I paint a dragon?” Sara asks excitedly, her eyes shining.

“Of course you can.” Even places one of his pristine eggs next to the half a dozen ones Sara has already painted in neon and gold.

“Could I fight a dragon?”

“They say some dragons are invisible. Maybe you’ve already fought one.”

“I don’t want there to be invisible dragons, though,” Sara says with all the conviction of a six-year-old.

“Why not?” Even asks curiously.

Sara lets out a heavy sigh, like she’s talking to a complete idiot.

“They must be really lonely. Since no one can see them.”

The brush in Even’s hand trembles, a dash of green erupts from the dragon’s mouth.

* * *

On Thursday night, Isak calls unexpectedly.

“Hi, it’s Isak—Valtersen.”

“Yeah, I kinda figured from the called ID,” Even says, feeling his mouth curve into a grin.

Isak’s voice is apologetic. “I hope I didn’t call at a bad time. I know I should have emailed you first, but I didn’t want to risk it in case you don’t check your email over the holidays.”

“Something wrong?” Even asks, his chest tightening as he braces himself for whatever bad news Isak may be bearing.

“No, no, just a small scheduling conflict,” Isak hurries to reassure, which slightly eases Even’s sudden worry. “I was wondering if our next meeting could be pushed back by two hours, although I totally understand if—”

The words rush out before Even has as much as opened his calendar. “Of course. It’s totally chill.”

“Really?” Isak sounds surprised.

“Sure.”

“Man, thanks. I really hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.”

“Not at all. I was just watering my plants,” Even says, remorsefully glancing at the wilted parsley on the windowsill.

Isak laughs, the nervous edge around his voice melting away. “Good to know.”

“How’s the weather up in Trondheim?”

“Cloudy with a chance of rain. Over there?”

“Much the same,” Even replies, and they both laugh.

Even’s gaze wanders to the painted egg Emil gave him, and it gives him an idea.

“Listen, you wouldn’t happen to know anyone who has a cheap telescope to sell? Or to rent, renting works fine.”

“Telescope? I’m your man. I’m happy to lend you one of mine,” Isak says promptly.

“Really?”

“Sure. Anytime. I’ll have it dusted out for your next visit if you have somewhere to put it.”

Even laughs. “Thanks. I’ll work something out.”

He looks out the window then, smacking himself on the forehead as he spots a familiar figure approaching the front door. How could he forget?

“Shit—I’ve gotta go.”

Isak reacts quickly. “No problem. Thanks again, seriously.”

“Yeah, no problem. Anytime. And likewise, thanks for the offer,” Even replies hastily as he picks up the empty pizza boxes lying around and shoves them into the narrow space between the refrigerator and the wall.

“No problem. Anytime,” Isak says, understanding as ever.

A feeling of regret washes over Even as Isak ends the call, like being in a wrong place, but he picks himself up quickly, making his way to the door to let Mads in.

“You’re eager today,” he teases as Mads goes straight in for a kiss.

“Horny as hell.” Mads steps inside, struggles to toe off his shoes. “Can hardly think straight.”

Even laughs. “You know where the bedroom is. See you there, I really need to take a piss first.”

In the bathroom, Even washes his face with cold water.

There’s smudge in the mirror, clouding his reflection. Even watches himself, touches the corner of his mouth: the grin he thought was still there is nowhere to be seen.

* * *


End file.
